


I Can Handle It

by HazelDomain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Community: spnkink_meme, Gen, Hurt Castiel, Mpreg, Season 11, angel baby, pregnancy in danger, pregnancy trigger warnings, season 10, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5976727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelDomain/pseuds/HazelDomain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel gets his grace back, but there's something extra that wasn't there before. Castiel knows his life is dangerous, but his father wouldn't have sent the little angel if he didn't think Castiel could do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Book of the Damned

**Author's Note:**

> I keep reading great stories whose ideas are attributed to SPNkink-meme on livejournal. I checked it out and immediately came up with this:  
> http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/106950.html?thread=40331206#t40331206
> 
> (You can click to see the prompt, but there are spoilers.) 
> 
> On a related note, I don't actually have a livejournal, so if you do, do me a favor and drop Anonymous (the famous poet!) a line letting them know I'm doing their story? Thanks, you're the best. 
> 
> Picks up S10E18 right before Castiel gets his grace back.

 

“What is the maddest thing a man can do?”

 

It’s not a title, it’s a _quote._

 

Castiel groaned, kicking himself at his own shortsightedness. A few aisles away, Metatron was having some kind of gloating conversation, mostly with himself.

It took everything he had to put one arm in front of the other, dragging himself along the bookshelf.

Don Quixote. The maddest thing a man can do.

The moment he touched the spine of the book, it fell toward him, grace tumbling out. It sang to him, joyous to be so close. He’d heard it the moment he entered the library. His missing part.

Metatron appeared at the end of the aisle just as Castiel thumbed the lid off the vial. The grace was burning ice on his lips, threading its way down his throat. The world brightened, focused. Metatron vanished and the books began exploding, sending a rain of shredded paper around him. His wings burst free and he’d never felt such relief in his life. Grace flooded his body, a burning heat that faded to the neutral comfort that came from the ability to ignore one’s physical surroundings.

 

The light faded, the paper settled, and it was quiet. Metatron couldn’t have gotten far, not without his grace. It was probably best to vacate the ruined library anyway. Explosions of bright light tended to draw the sort of well-meaning humans that carried guns and asked difficult questions.

 

He hadn’t made it more than two steps before he felt it. An unfamiliar flutter just below his belly button. He paused. It fluttered again.

_No._

_Not now._

He sent tendrils of grace toward the flutter, asking them to tell him something other than what he already knew.

A tiny life was growing inside him.

_Father, please, I can’t do this. Not now._

_It’s not safe._

If God was listening, he offered no response. No explanation. The fledgling fluttered again. From the front of the building. Castiel could hear concerned voices. Time to leave.

 

 

 

He didn’t tell Sam. Or Dean.

For one thing, the brothers viewed him through an extremely masculine lens. Things like age and sex were very important to human interactions and behavior. Despite having appeared to both of them in the body of a female child, Sam and Dean thought of him as ‘adult’ and ‘male.’ Dean in particular was very deliberate in framing the interactions he had with Castiel, and more than once the seraph had wondered whether things would be different between them if he had taken a different vessel. Perhaps if he had been a young woman, he might have been able to tell them about the situation he found himself in.

He considered broaching the subject by mentioning that in several species of pipefish, including seahorses, the young were carried by the male, so it’s not as though this were a totally new concept. The more he thought about it, however, the more he became certain that the idea would only disturb the brothers, and in any case, the topic of seahorses never really came up.    

And anyway, the hunters were quickly off to fight some ancient evil, and he had his own mission to return to. Dean still had the mark to contend with, and Sam’s conversations were punctuated with worried glances toward his brother.

So there was really no reason to burden them with this, too. It’s not like anything could be done. Castiel just needed to be careful for a few months. He could do that. God wouldn’t have sent him the little creature if he didn’t think Castiel could handle it.


	2. Angel Heart

Castiel tried not to think about the fledgling. He’d lived for millennia on his own skills, and only died once. It stood to reason that he could survive a few more months without changing too many habits.

It was completely a coincidence that he wasn’t busy when he got the phone call about Claire. It’s not that he was _avoiding_ confrontations with the remaining rogue angels. He just didn’t have any leads. Any strong leads, anyway. Any leads strong enough to act on.

Claire had been hospitalized with a head wound, which was bad enough. She’d been hospitalized with a head wound after being found, alone, in an alley outside a bar, and that was worse. Castiel supposed that’s the sort of trouble that teenagers got into when they didn’t have parents. The girl needed guidance, advice. Help.

Castiel called Sam. He’d been a troubled youth, he’d know how to talk to Claire.  

 

Dean and Sam had opposite ideas on how to help Claire. Castiel wondered how it was possible that the brothers had shared a parent. Shouldn’t they have learned from their own progenitors how to properly raise a child? Perhaps it was because Dean had spent several formative years with two parents and Sam had only ever had one. That might explain the difference.

Castiel supposed that when his fledgling was done forming, he would return it to heaven. Metatron had said that Hannah had restored order, and that things were running smoothly. Heaven wasn’t the place for him, but surely it would be a safe place for the young angel to grow up. Better than being down on Earth with its angelic failure of a parent.

 

Claire’s mother didn’t survive. She’d gone missing looking for her husband, and died in her daughter’s arms.

Castiel tried not to compare the women to the way they’d looked when he had first seen them. He tried not to think of how the family would look if Jimmy were still alive.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it. Sam and Dean were strong fighters, but even the two of them were no match for Tamiel. Castiel fumbled through the hay, looking for his angel blade. It was nowhere to be found and he didn’t have time to look. He launched himself into the stronger angel, buying the two brothers a little time and hoping they’d find a way to use it before the grigori killed him. Almost immediately he was slammed onto the floor of the barn, knocking the wind out of him.

_‘Sorry, little angel,’_ he had time to think as the monster snarled down at him, blade raised high, and then Castiel was blinded by the light blossoming from the grigori’s chest.

Claire.

She’d saved their lives.

And now he’d killed both her parents.

It was a poor reward.

 

 

The yellow vehicle pulled away, taking Claire with it. Claire, and the angel sword she’d picked up when she’d thought no one was looking. Claire, and the book of angel spells and weaknesses that Dean had given her when Castiel insisted. Claire, who hadn’t had her last brush with darkness, not by a long shot.

He knew a stuffed cat was a poor substitute for a father, but it would put her in far less danger.

Still, he was glad to know she’d taken it.

Sam said she’d be okay. But then, Sam said Castiel would be okay, too, so what did he know.

The little angel fluttered in his belly, and he stroked it with his grace, soothing it with a calm he didn’t feel himself.


	3. Dark Dynasty

He couldn’t help but think of it as an egg.

It didn’t make sense. A forming angel was not a physical vessel, just a vague nebula of grace. It wasn’t even _growing_ as much as it was _congealing._

Still, when he reached out his grace to lay feather-light touches on the little thing, the image that came to mind was that of a large, warm egg. He often found himself stroking the leathery surface absentmindedly, which didn’t make sense because there’s no way a metaphysical entity can have a covering, let alone one with a _texture._ He’d tell himself this and then five minutes later find himself stroking it again. And so he threw up his hands in defeat and let it happen.

He thought that the egg enjoyed these touches. That they were helping it grow somehow. He knew that his grace helped gather and condense the etheric power that the fledgling needed to grow, but it did that automatically. The conscious (unconscious) interaction wasn’t required and almost certainly had nothing to do with the health or well-being of the little angel.

Still, it did seem to settle the flutters he felt sometimes, when he was distressed.

Like when Sam called him and told him he needed help wrangling a witch. He needed help wrangling a witch because the witch was going to be working some very powerful dark magic and Sam didn’t know how to control her.

Castiel didn’t know either, but he went anyway.  

 

Sam assumed that Castiel could guard the two women 24/7, and when Castiel protested, Sam fixed him with a gaze so helplessly pathetic that the angel gave up. Rowena was smirking at him. He wondered if she knew about the egg. Sometimes humans could see such things, if they were perceptive. Rowena was very perceptive.

 

Charlie and Rowena hated each other. It put Castiel on edge. He didn’t think the bickering would escalate to physical violence, which was good, but it also left the constant picking without any obvious solution, which was bad. He called Sam for help, but Dean picked up the phone and Castiel had been forced to lie. He didn’t like lying to Dean. It hadn’t gone well for him, historically.

He hung up the phone and turned back to the shouting women. Absently, one hand rested on his stomach.

 

 

Castiel pressed one hand to his ear, blocking out the sounds of conflict. Sam’s voice was tinny over the phone. He was beginning to get a headache.

“You don’t understand. Nothing is getting done.”

“Then separate them!”

“How? I can’t leave either of them alone and I can’t let either of them leave.”

“Look, Cas, I’m in the middle of something here and I really can’t talk. Figure it out, okay?”

“Sam, there’s something-“

“Just handle it, Cas. I gotta go.”

The line went dead.

Probably for the best.  

 

Rowena was Crowley’s mother.

Well, that clarified a lot of things.

“Peasant boy born to a peasant mother, and look at us now,” Rowena trilled. “King of Hell and the most powerful witch alive. Not bad, if I do say so myself.” She paused, preening. “Just goes to show, auspicious individuals sometimes arise from the most… paltry…. of sources.” She smiled meaningfully at Castiel. He glared back. He didn’t want to have this conversation. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Just, stay in here until Charlie calms down a bit.”

“Oh, but we’re having such a lovely conversation. Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Rowena batted her eyelashes at him. “I have been known to make _extremely_ accurate predictions.”

Castiel shook his head. He wanted Rowena’s magic nowhere near him, or the little angel. He made his excuses and left.

Charlie was gone.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping the bite-sized chapters are doing it for you guys. It's a slow day at work, so I'm just going through the episodes one at a time and doing Cas's parts.   
> Is it working?


	4. The Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel gets the shit predictably beat out of him.

Rowena was staring at him.

Charlie was dead and Sam looked like he was going to cry and Dean was angry at them.

The flutter had turned into a dull churning. He smoothed his grace over the eggshell. It felt warm. It centered him.

Rowena was staring.

He should have gone after Charlie. He should have left Rowena and gone after Charlie. Even if the witch had escaped, no one was chasing her. They could have caught her again. And Charlie would be alive.

One more person he’d failed. One more person dead because of him.

Rowena was staring. Why couldn’t it have been _Rowena_ who had died? He’d kill Rowena himself. Gladly.

Charlie had cracked the code, and Sam was asking him to lie to Dean again. Whatever magic Rowena was getting up to, Castiel wouldn’t be there to help. He would be with Dean. Distracting him. Lying.

If he could find him. And if Dean wasn’t too far gone to be reasoned with. Maybe he wouldn’t have to lie to Dean. Maybe he’d just have to stop him.

Cas glanced between Rowena and Sam. He didn’t want to leave Sam alone with the witch. He didn’t want to be around Rowena. But he couldn’t fight Dean. Not on his own. He knew for a fact that the cursed man could overpower him easily. And unlike Castiel, Dean could fight to kill.

Sam begged, and Castiel went.  

It was a long drive to Shreveport.

 

Castiel liked driving. The empty highways were smooth, and if he went fast enough, he could almost imagine he was flying. He missed flying. His wings were a shredded mess, and it was unlikely he’d be able to heal them.

He wondered what the little angel’s wings would be like.

He remembered being a fledgling himself, learning the aerial acrobatics that would eventually get him the assignment of rescuing the righteous man from Hell. The skills were useful, but that wasn’t why he’d learned. He’d learned because he’d loved the feeling of falling, spreading his wings wide at the last moment, catching himself and pulling up, all his momentum forced into swoops and turns.

 _‘There’s nothing like flying,’_ he told the little one. ‘ _When you’re in the air, nothing can touch you.’_

 

The house in Shreveport was a bloody mess. He’d hoped to find Dean on the lower levels, but there was nothing in the basement except corpses. No survivors. He checked the GPS. Dean should still be here. Somewhere.

He searched through the house. He found two more bodies huddled in a broom closet where they’d bled to death, hiding from the monster tearing through the house like a tornado. He found an impressive collection of melee weapons, most of them bloodied and abandoned on the floor. But no Dean.

He checked the GPS again.

The dot was headed North.

 

 

He called Sam.

Sam said to deal with it.

He wanted to ask Sam to meet him there. He wanted to tell Sam that he wasn’t a match for Dean, not with the mark. He wanted to ask Sam for help. He wasn’t strong enough. He had something he needed to take care of. He wanted to tell Sam about the little one.

But Sam’s voice came over the phone so pained, so exhausted. He had his hands full with Rowena and Crowley. He didn’t need to deal with Castiel’s problems, too.

He told Sam he’d take care of it.  

 

On the way, he told the little angel about Dean. How he was a righteous man. How he would give everything he had to protect the people he loved. How he’d been brave, and kind, and pure. He told the little angel about Sam, and Bobby, and Charlie. Hannah and Samandriel and Gabriel. He told the little angel about the people he’d loved, and hoped the little one would have people that they loved, too.

 

He made it through the ruined door of the bunker just in time to hear the gunshot. He was too late. Three Stynes had broken into the bunker, and all three of them were dead. One was only a teenager. A child. Dean didn’t look at them when he told Castiel to leave.

Castiel should have left Dean to the bunker. Guarded the door and waited for Sam. Dean’s face was haggard and pale and caked with blood. Maybe his own. Probably not.

He should have left Dean to his own devices and waited for backup. But he was stupid. He misjudged how far gone Dean was. He tried to appeal to the hunter’s humanity, only to find there was nothing left to appeal to.

Dean broke his arm first, twisting him sideways and snapping the bone below the shoulder. Castiel turned the other cheek, and that was quickly broken as well. He didn’t fight back. Maybe if Dean could let out a little of that aggression, that hate, he’d come back to himself. If only for a while.

He misjudged.

He misjudged and once he’d realized it, it was too late. He wrapped his arms around Dean, trying to subdue the man, but the mark made him strong and vicious.

Castiel raised his arms, trying to protect his face. He got a knee to the stomach for his trouble. Something twisted deep inside him, and he ceased fighting back at all. He grace sought out wound after wound but he forced it back, forced it to ignore the lacerations and bruises and cracks and ruptures.

He forced it to surround the egg. He wrapped his grace around the little one like a blanket, cushioning and protecting it even as the blows rained down on him from outside.

A rib cracked, and Castiel’s mouth filled with blood. Too much blood. He was losing the vessel. The angel blade slid from his sleeve, and Dean seized it, holding it poised above the angel.

Dean paused, and Castiel had one chance left.

He had to tell Dean about the little one.

His chest heaved and he choked on the blood. Dean regarded him silently, then buried the blade in a tome beside Castiel’s head.

“Next time I won’t miss,” he promised, and stalked out of the bunker.

 

Castiel stared at the angel blade for a long time. Dean could easily have killed him. Killed both of them. He shouldn’t have faced him alone. He knew walking in that he wasn’t strong enough. He’d done it anyway because he was stupid and loyal and reckless.

And he’d gotten the little angel hurt.

His grace fretted over the egg, no longer feeling the leathery strength. Instead, the shell was dry, brittle, like paper. It was thin in places, and he could feel the warm humming of the little angel through it. It was no longer protecting the little one. It was just surrounding them. He needed to be more careful.

When he was certain that there was nothing more he could do to repair the egg, he allowed his own wounds to heal. It didn’t feel fair.


	5. Brother's Keeper

Castiel was almost certain that the two of them could capture and hold Dean if they worked together.   
Sam was past that. He was working on creating witch bullets. And he was agitated. Castiel didn’t think Sam should be hitting bullets with a mallet while he was agitated, but he suspected his opinion might make the situation worse, so he kept it to himself.

Sam was convinced that Rowena didn’t need Dean _present_ to reverse the spell. He didn’t want to waste the time or energy locking Dean up if it wasn’t necessary. Castiel was selfishly glad to avoid the risk. He acquiesced to Sam’s decision and told himself that he wasn’t letting the little one cloud his judgment.

He still hadn’t told Sam.

 

 

Rowena was oddly focused on her tea. She kept offering them cups, and Castiel thought that maybe she’d poisoned them. She was using the pre-wrapped packages he’d brought from the mini-mart, so he didn’t see how she could have, but she was a witch. She probably had ways.

Sam was not handling the conversation well. Rowena’s idle comments seemed to bother him a good deal. Castiel supposed he was impatient with the witch and worried about Dean. Castiel was worried about Dean. More than that, he was starting to get seriously worried about Sam, too.

Rowena asked for the Codex, and her freedom. Sam agreed with barely any hesitation. Castiel protested, but he didn’t have an alternative. Rowena had all the “leverage.”

Castiel watched stonily as Sam and Rowena shook on it, and Rowena began laying out her spell. Once more, Castiel thought of flying. Rowena needed the forbidden fruit and the golden calf, and once upon a time, Castiel would have been able to retrieve them easily. Now, he’d have to find another way.  

His train of thought was interrupted when Sam’s phone rang. Sam crossed the room, talking to someone in a low voice. Castiel had hoped it might be Dean, but by the sound of Sam’s voice, no such luck.

It wasn’t Dean, but the caller knew where Dean was. Castiel’s heart dropped when Sam turned to him. Sam was leaving, and Castiel was scared. He didn’t want to be alone with Rowena. He knew what he needed to do to get the ingredients for the spell, and he didn’t want to be alone for that, either. The fragile flutters in his belly began again, the little angel feeling his fear.

“What’s going on?” he started, but Sam cut him off, holding out a plastic bag.

“Take this. It’s Dean’s hair. You’ll need it for the spell.” Sam must have seen the concern on his face because he pushed on. “Cas, I need you to do this for me. Make the spell happen. Whatever it takes. Please.”

Castiel took the bag, and Sam nodded, before turning and stalking off without a word. Castiel and Rowena watched him go. Castiel’s hand settled over his stomach once again. Sam and Dean were willing to give up everything to save the world. Castiel had to be ready to give up everything too.  

He owed Dean for so many mistakes. For pressuring him into being Michael’s vessel, for abandoning him in Purgatory, for lying to him about the collaboration with Crowley and the battle with Raphael, for stealing the angel tablet, for not listening to him about Metatron and the souls of Purgatory….

A thousand lifetimes wouldn’t be enough to wipe the slate clear of the debt he owed Dean. He didn’t have the right to be selfish.  

He made sure Rowena’s bonds were secure, and set about gathering the ingredients he needed to summon Crowley.  

 

 

Six hours later he was standing at a darkened crossroads, watching a match burn down. He couldn’t make himself drop it into the spell bowl. In a moment the flames would reach his fingers and he’d drop it into the bowl. He’d have to.

The flame burned closer. He ordered his fingers to drop it.

It singed his hands and he cursed, flicking the scrap of wood across the wet asphalt. It landed near the others, smoking lightly. Mocking him. He put his burned finger in his mouth, a pointless gesture since his grace healed it anyway.

There were one hundred seventy-three matches left in the box.

Castiel checked his phone, looking for a message from Sam or Dean, saying they’d figured it all out and they wouldn’t need Rowena’s black magic after all.

The phone cheerfully informed him that he had no missed messages.

He sent a tendril of grace curling around the little angel, stroking it slowly, drawing comfort from it. They were growing quickly, and now when he touched the shell, he could feel tendrils of another’s grace pushing back. The little angel was curious about him.

 _Soon,_ he promised it.

He struck another match, dropping it into the bowl before he even had time to think about why he shouldn’t. The spell ingredients flared up immediately, and Castiel got to his feet, looking around warily. Crowley would appear behind him, of course. NO matter where you looked, demons always appear behind you.

“Who summons anymore?” the demon snarked from behind him. “Couldn’t you _call?_ ”

“You’re not in my contacts list,” Castiel explained.

 _And it gave me an excuse to delay this conversation for nearly four hours,_ he didn’t add. The demon raised an eyebrow at him.

“I need your assistance. To get the Mark of Cain off Dean.”

Crowley was smirking down at him.

“The Winchesters aren’t on my buddy list right now, seeing as how Moose tried to kill me with my mother’s shitty magic just a few short days ago.”

“I’m afraid ‘no’ isn’t an acceptable answer,” Castiel growled, gathering his grace into his fingertips and raising his hand to Crowley’s eye level.

“Smiting? Really? All our history and we can’t have a pleasant conversation without resorting to the need to _smite_?”

Crowley was calling his bluff. He had no allies left in Heaven and he’d never really had any in Hell.

“What do you want, Crowley?”

“Well, not to fall back on the old demon cliché, but I believe there’s a firstborn child up for grabs?”

Crowley gave him a meaningful look and Castiel’s stomach twisted. He drew back from the demon, dropping onto a defensive posture.

“No.”

“Oh calm down, Feathers. I’m just having a bit of a laugh. What would I want with a broken baby angel?” Crowley snapped his fingers impatiently. “Give me the list.”

Castiel handed it over, eyeing the demon suspiciously.

“They’re not broken.”

“Fine. A _special_ baby angel. Whatever you new age parents are calling it nowadays.”

“My fledgling is _fine_ ,” Castiel growled.

“It’s a quince,” Crowley muttered, still looking at the list.

“What?”

“The forbidden fruit. It’s not an apple, it’s a quince.” Crowley narrowed his eyes at the angel. “Weren’t you _there?_ ”

“It’s not important. Can you get the ingredients or not?”

“Can I? Absolutely. The question is, will I?”

Castiel stared at him. Crowley pondered.

“I’ll do it,” he said at last.

And then he was gone.

 

 

Dean called him before he made it back to the warehouse where they were holding Rowena.

“Hey Cas.”

“Dean. Where are you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Castiel had once spent a year with the man in a cursed dimension where they were constantly hunted and no one slept. He’d seen the hunter beaten within an inch of his life more than once. He’d seen him pulled out of the throes of a demonic infection that almost killed him. So when he thought Dean sounded worn out, he felt he had a good standard to measure by.

“Listen, Cas. This is important and I don’t have a lot of time. I’ve found a way to handle the mark. Not get rid of it, just handle it. And when you hear about it, you aren’t going to like it.”

“Dean, we’re close, Sam and I-“

Something crashed on the other end of the line.

“Dammit, Cas. That book is bad luck and if you have any sense at all you’ll find someone who can throw it into the sun. I’m telling you, _don’t._ I’ve got this.”

“What are you going to do.”

“I’m handling it, Cas. Just…. Leave it alone, okay? I’ve got this one. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s the best I’ve got. So leave it alone.”

The line went dead before Castiel could reply.

“I want you to come back,” he murmured into the silent phone. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

 

 

Rowena’s eyes were filled with tears as Oskar’s blood dripped into the spell bowl. Castiel was horrified. She muttered a string of words in Latin, looking meaningfully between Crowley and Castiel. The bowl filled with a white light and then exploded outward, throwing Castiel off his feet. His head rang and spots floated before his eyes, but he dragged himself to his feet. He needed to get to Rowena.

Her shackles dropped to the floor with a clank, and Castiel froze. He could see Crowley, on the other side of the room, similarly frozen in place.

Rowena gestured at him and suddenly there was pain, pain and anger and malice and fear. He doubled over, thinking if he were human he’d fear being sick, but this was just a vessel, and so the cramps and spasms rolling through him produced nothing.

And then he looked up and saw Crowley, standing there. Crowley, who had threatened his fledgling and his friends and Castiel himself, Crowley, who had brought _all_ of this tumbling down, and Castiel was determined to make him pay. He found he could move again and he let his blade fall into his hand, ignoring Rowena as she waved goodbye. Rowena wasn’t his problem. Crowley, _Crowley_ was his problem, and he was going to make the demon pay.

Crowley was screaming at him to stop, but Castiel paid no mind.


	6. Out of the Darkness, into the Fire

_Kill him._

_Kill him._

_Kill him._

_KILL HIM  
KILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIM-_

“You have to run,” Castiel growled at the boy. “I can’t stop myself. Don’t make me hurt you.”

The child leveled the gun at him and Castiel surged forward, pushing the barrel up and shoving his way out the door. He heard gunshots _(burn them cut them kill them)_ and kept running.

The humans were persistent. They followed him deep into the woods, but he was able to lose them. Twice he circled around, seeking to catch them from behind, but each time he was able to hold back.

It was getting harder.

Blue and red lights flashed from the road, and he groaned. More humans. More guns. They were going to catch him and he was going to kill them. All of them.

And maybe they’d shoot him. It wouldn’t kill him.

But it would hurt the little angel. Hurt it bad. Maybe even-

He closed his eyes.

_Brothers, sisters, please. I know I’ve made mistakes, and I will accept any punishment you deem fit. But please, stop me from making it worse._

He paused, but heard nothing. If the other angels had heard him, they weren’t responding.

He called Dean, and hoped to hell the hunter wasn’t too angry about the spell to answer.

 

 

Castiel’s plea for help died on his lips.

The Darkness. The Darkness was free. Removing the Mark had set her free. His blood ran cold.

Dean had told him to leave it alone. And he hadn’t. _Again._

He was almost relieved to feel the presence of his brothers behind him. He said a terse goodbye to the hunters, and hung up the phone.

“Your vessel is damaged,” Jonah remarked, taking in his bloody face and haggard movements.

“It’s a witch’s spell,” Castiel muttered. “I’m dangerous here.”

“Well then. Let’s get you somewhere safe,” Efram replied with a terse smile. Jonah held out a pair of handcuffs on a long chain. Castiel took them gratefully, fastening them over his own wrists.

“Thank you. That’s very good thinking.”

The two angels exchanged looks.

 

 

On the way, Castiel told the little one about Heaven. He told it about the light, and the warmth, and the ether. He told it about the power that flows through the angels, connecting them to each other and their heavenly Father. He told the little one about the safety and the comfort of being surrounded by the host, and hearing their songs and voices always. He told the little one that when it was grown, it would learn to sing the songs of heaven, the glorious melodies sung in joy that never stopped.

He told the little ones about the heavens of people he liked to visit. The heavens of children were Castiel’s favorites. Endless days at the park or the zoo or the county fair.

He stroked at the surface of the egg as he told the little one all these things. His hands were manacled to the car door, but that was alright. He could feel the little one with his grace, and that was enough.

 

 

 

The new door to heaven was in a significantly dingier location than the last. Castiel looked around the deserted warehouse. It was remote, sure, but it didn’t have the simple aesthetic of the playground. But, it wasn’t his place to make comment. He’d had his chance to rule heaven, and he had blown it, spectacularly.

It wasn’t until the hood slipped over his head that he realized that the gate of heaven wasn’t anywhere near this building. They weren’t taking him to heaven.

A cord tightened around his neck, securing the hood, and he panicked at the blackness, expecting a blade to pierce his body at any second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy folks. Short chapter since Cas wasn't really in this episode much.   
> The way this is coagulating in my head, I'm thinking it's gonna be wrapped up in two more chapters (and I promise they will be longer and more fleshed out than this one is.) I wanted to do more with the Jonah/Efram situation in this chapter, but I can't get ahead of the stuff that happens in the next episode, so, it must all wait. 
> 
> Boo. We hate waiting. We hates it, precious. 
> 
>  
> 
> Let me know what you're liking. I'm doing this all for you, dear reader. Tell me how to please you.


	7. Form and Void

Dimly, Castiel was aware of his phone ringing. Was it morning? The room was dark. He tried to roll toward the sound, but gravity was pointing in the wrong direction. He wasn’t lying down. He was upright, hanging by his wrists. His shoulders were screaming. Something shattered. The ringing stopped.

Light flooded into his bloodshot eyes, and before he could even blink, someone slapped him across the face.

“Good morning, handsome!”

The figures in front of him were fuzzy, but he recognized the voice. Efram.

Oh. That’s right.

“I asked for help,” he mumbled. “If you aren’t taking me to heaven, then why come?”

“We have questions for you, Castiel.”

Questions. Angels always had questions for him. Questions he never had answers for.

Frustration built in his chest, turning to anger.

“No,” he growled. He looked up at the two angels, imagining them torn, bloodied, their grace shredded and dying. He’d do that. As soon as he got loose, he’d do that.

“No _what_?” Jonah scoffed.

“I’m cursed. I’m…. you should run.”

It was difficult to force the words out. His breath was coming hard. Every muscle in his body was tight, ready to strike out if given the chance. He heard a growl coming from his own throat.

“We can see that you’re cursed. But you’re also restrained, so it’s not really our problem. So let’s start with an easy question: where’s Metatron?”

Metatron. _Always_ Metatron. Next time he saw that buck-toothed fucker, he was dead. Then Castiel would know exactly where he was and what he was up to.

“Metatron escaped.”

“How?”

“Some kind of spell. Sigils. They weakened me and gave him time to escape.”

“What spell did he cast that was strong enough to take down a full-powered angel?”

Cas shook his head, wincing when pain spiked through his brain.

“I wasn’t full powered at the time.”

The other two exchanged looks.

“So he overpowered you, and escaped, and _then_ gave your grace back?”

“Yes. No. It’s complicated.”

“Let’s simplify it then,” Jonah said amiably, laying his blade against Castiel’s chest and pressing. “Where is Metatron _now?_ ”

The blade pierced his skin, and Castiel could feel blood soaking his thin cotton shirt. He growled, roaring his hate at the smirking angel.

“I don’t _know!_ ”

The blade sliced into his skin again, digging into his grace. Inside him, the little one twisted and writhed in pain.

“Where’s Metatron?”

Castiel growled, his hands wrenching in the shackles, unable to see anything but his fingers closing around Jonah’s throat. The knife withdrew. Jonah frowned.

“The spell’s interfering. He’s so ‘roided up I don’t think he can even feel it.”

“So cut deeper,” Efram said, shrugging, before driving his own blade deep into Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel screamed, raw and torn. Hot blood dripped down his back when the blade pushed through his body.

The little angel was screaming.

“Mercy, brother, _please!_ ”

“Brother?” Efram hissed, drawing down so that his eyes were level with Castiel’s. “You’ve betrayed heaven again and again and again. You’re a traitor to your people and you’re no brother of mine. If we didn’t need to know what you know, I’d kill you now.” He drew his blade down Castiel’s cheek. “So _don’t_ call me brother.”

“Mercy. Please. I have a fledgling,” Castiel murmured, dropping his eyes.

“You think we don’t know that?”

“So kill me if you have to, but give me time!” Castiel begged. “A few months in heaven’s jail. That’s all I need. I’ll go quietly.”

“If you think that twisted little abomination is ever setting foot in heaven, you’re even more deluded than I thought,” Jonah said. He pressed the point of his blade into Castiel’s body, just below the belly button. “I have half a mind to kill it now and put it out of its misery.”

“No!” Castiel screamed, jerking away from the blade. “No, please, I know I can’t be forgiven, but the fledgling is innocent!”

“Nothing born of you is innocent, Castiel. You’re broken. Warped. The apple couldn’t possibly fall far from the tree.”

“I’ve made mistakes, I know. But believe me when I say I have _always_ had heaven’s best interests in mind. All I’ve ever tried to do is save us!”

“So prove it, Castiel. Here’s an angel’s life held squarely in your hands. Tell us where Metatron is, or you and the fledgling die.”

“I don’t _know!_ ” Castiel screamed.

“Then you’re no good to us,” Efram said, drawing back his blade for a killing strike. Castiel clenched his eyes, wrapping his grace tightly around the frightened egg, trying to give it what comfort he could.

And that’s when the door exploded.

 

 

Hannah was worried. Her dark eyes roamed over Castiel’s battered body, taking in the blood, the bruises, his damaged grace. She helped him into a rickety wooden chair, settling onto the ground beside him.

“I wasn’t lying about Metatron,” he told her.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m worried about you. And about heaven. Castiel, something’s wrong. There are alarms ringing that we’ve never heard before.”

“It’s the darkness.”

“That’s not real.”

“It is, and it’s loose. I was trying to get back to heaven to warn you, but the angels who answered had…. other plans.” Castiel laughed weakly. “It’s good to see you, Hannah.”

“I wish I could say the same. What’s wrong with your vessel?”

“It’s been cursed. Can you heal it?”

Hannah pressed two fingers to his forehead, and he felt her grace seeping into him. It flinched at what it saw, recoiling before it could make the connection required for healing.

“I’m sorry, Castiel.”

“It’s alright. I’ll need to find a witch or someone familiar with spellwork before I can return to heaven. I’m too dangerous otherwise.”

“Of course. In the meantime, we need to focus on the darkness. Where is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would Sam or Dean know? Where are they?”

Castiel regarded her from the corners of his eyes.

“Why do you want Sam and Dean?”

“It doesn’t matter, Castiel. Just tell me where they are.”

“Hannah…. How did you find me?”

Hannah stared blankly.

“Hannah, my vessel and this building are both warded against angels. How did you find me here?”

Hannah opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off.

“Alright, jig’s up.” Jonah said. “You tried, now we get to do this the fun way.”

Castiel stared at Hannah. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“You were in on this. Hannah, we’re friends!”

“We _were_ friends. That was before you stole Metatron and lost him. Now, the other angels, they hate you.”

“Do you hate me?”

Hannah didn’t answer.  

 

 

The spikes immobilized him. The rage clawed through him, burning him from the inside, and all he could do was scream through locked jaws. Pieces of memory, feelings, faded in and out of his mind as the pins were pressed deeper into his skull. The little one fluttered inside him, frightened but thankfully spared the pain of this torture.

They were going to kill it. When they realized he didn’t have the information they needed, they would kill him and the fledgling both.

His eyes flicked to Hannah. His only hope. The only angel left in heaven who might accept the infant angel laid at her feet. And Efram was hitting her. And hitting her. And hitting her.

A spike dropped to the ground. Efram didn’t stop.

The rage rose, burning, consuming him. His vision went red. The arms of the wooden chair snapped under his hands and he lunged at Efram, screaming.

When the red cleared from his vision, the three other angels were dead.

 

 

He gathered the angel blades, searching through pockets until he came up with the keys for the handcuffs, and then the car. It was a nondescript Ford four-door, and there was enough gas to get him to the bunker.

He’d wait for Sam and Dean.

They’d broken dozens of curses. They’d help him.


	8. The Bad Seed

“Wait, I thought the darkness was a woman. How is she a baby?”

“Maybe the adult I saw was a vision of the future? So she still had to grow up.”

“The darkness is older than the universe,” Castiel grumbled. “I don’t understand what ‘growing up’ means in this context.”

He didn’t want to think about babies. He wanted the hunters to stop talking. Their voices were like sandpaper on the inside of his skull. He fingered the shackles holding him to the ground, and wondered if he’d have the strength to pull up the screws and strangle one of the brothers. Just one.

He shook his head, wincing at the spikes of pain. He had to stop thinking like that.

“What about god? He’s put this thing down once before, right?”

“I don’t think we should count on assistance from that front.”

Castiel scowled. Out there, somewhere, his father was still alive. The child inside him was proof of that. God just wasn’t interested in providing any real help. His interaction with his creation was limited to dumping fledgling angels into the laps of people with work to do.

The little one fluttered inside him. The whole eggshell was glowing now. The little angel was growing fast. Not fast enough. He stroked his grace over the shell, letting it calm him. Sam and Dean could remove the curse. He was going to be okay.

Sam was talking about Metatron. Castiel remembered his earlier resolution to murder the ex-angel if he ever saw him again. He lost track of the conversation as visions of gore and destruction meandered through his mind. They sat in his skull like a dull itch.

“Blaine Missouri, right, Cas?”

“… what?”

Sam was looking at him.

“Metatron stole your car in Blaine Missouri, right?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, uh, no accidents, incidents, violations, or anything remotely interesting involving a crappy '78 Continental Mark V.“

Spikes of red crossed Castiel’s vision, searing into his eyes like needles. His body shook, falling to the floor and twisting in desperate spasms. Anything to get rid of this pain. He felt hands on him and struck out at them. They were hurting him. The little one was hurting him. Everyone was-

The pain receded, and his body stilled. He was on the ground, Sam and Dean were looking down at him, worry written plainly across their faces.

“It’s the spell,” Castiel explained uselessly. He climbed shakily back up into the chair, wrapping his blanket back around him. The tight pull around his shoulders comforted him. Once upon a time, he would have wrapped himself in his wings, letting them calm and protect him. But his wings were tattered and torn, broken and useless. The blanket would have to do.

The angels were chattering over the airwaves, talking about Metatron, talking about him. Dean made a joke about schizophrenia.

Behind his eyes, the pain began again.  

 

 

 

They’d left him alone.

Finally.

Sam had left his laptop in the hopes that Castiel could make some progress with Metatron, but the device was an impenetrable labyrinth of inconsistencies and naked Asian women. He’d find Metatron himself.

He scratched at the cuffs, wondering if he had the strength to simply pull them over the vessel’s hands. It would tear the flesh, but he’d be out. Away from here. Finding Metatron and…. _hurting_ him.

He cast around the table, looking for something he could use to free himself from the hated cuffs. They weren’t warded. They weren’t magic. They were just normal, everyday, metal cuffs, and they could _not_ hold him.

He yanked impotently at the chain, rattling it and loosening it not one bit.

_FUCK._

The scratch at the base of his skull was becoming unbearable. He wanted to find the person doing this to him. He was going to find them. Find them and kill them if it was the last thing he _did._

He twisted his wrists in the cuffs, grimacing as the metal bit into his skin.

Fuck the vessel. It would heal. Easily.

Gritting his teeth, Castiel grasped the cuff surrounding his right wrist, and _pulled._

 

 

It took him a very long time to find people. He walked for hours, along roadsides and through fields and, on one notable occasion, across a freeway overpass. One of the vehicles honked at him, a long blaring roar that sent knives pounding through his skull.

It was dark by the time he made it into the city. It was dark and the people were, for the most part, sheltered indoors.

Let them hide.

He had time.

A burst of movement caught his eye, and he turned unsteadily toward the young woman walking away from him. His eyes narrowed.

_Bitch._

The little one fluttered, but he ignored it. A growl built low in his throat as he set off after the young woman.

The itch subsided slightly while he followed her. It felt good. Felt right. She picked up her speed and he matched her.

She ducked into a warehouse, and frustration bloomed in his chest. Why would she do that? The door was locked, and now he’d have to break it down. Why? Why was she making this so hard for him?

He resolved to take it out on her when he caught her.

He stalked her silently through the aisles of the warehouse. Her panicked breathing sounded in his ears like a foghorn. He wanted to make it stop. Make it quiet.

When his hands wrapped around her throat, her sobs cooled the itch like a balm. He relaxed even as he squeezed tighter. One down, only a few billion to go.

“Cas, stop!”

Red flashed again as he turned to look at the man shouting at him. The man looked familiar. The man was shouting at him to stop, and for some reason, he wanted to obey. This man was important. His words were important.

The girl glanced back at him as she fled, and the itching was suddenly back in full force. The man had made him lose the girl and it was his fault _his fault HIS FAULT._

Castiel lunged at the man, landing blow after blow, growling and screaming until suddenly his body was _ice._ He couldn’t move. He stared at his hands, expecting them to freeze and turn to ash before his eyes. Somewhere far off, a woman was speaking to him. He couldn’t hear. He couldn’t see. The ice was covering him, filling his nose and throat, he couldn’t breathe.

He might have fallen. He couldn’t tell. His grace was freezing inside him, cracking, shattering.

With everything he had left, he wrapped himself around the egg, the glowing, fragile, warm, wonderful egg.

Blackness was filling him. Freezing wind howled in his ears. He clenched his eyes shut, remembering heaven.

He tried to tell the little one that it was going to be fine, that he was going to protect them, but he didn’t have the words. So he sang to it. His voice was soft, cracking, buried under the screaming driving wind. But he sang anyway.

The darkness closed in on them.  

 

 

 

“Cas? Cas? Wake up, man!”

Rowena was gone. That was fine, they’d chase her later. Cas had fallen to the floor, seizing and coughing, but now he was still. Alarmingly still. Dean cradled the angel’s face, willing him back to life.

Castiel opened his eyes, looking up at Dean.

And then he heaved, doubling over. Blood dripped from his lips, splattering across the floor when he coughed.

Blood and, more worryingly, blue wisps of grace.

“Cas? You still hulking out on us?”

The angel didn’t respond. He slumped over onto the floor, out cold.

 

 

“He still coughing up grace?”

“Yeah. Every couple minutes.”

Dean took his eyes off the road for a second to glance back at their passenger. Castiel was sprawled across the back of the impala, dead to the world. His breathing and heart rate were both too fast, but maybe that was normal for angels? Dean realized with a start that he’d never paid attention. Or asked.

Cas had _definitely_ never lost grace like this before, though. That, Dean would definitely have noticed.

“Try Crowley again.”

“You think he’s changed his mind since the last voicemail?”

“Rowena’s in the wind, everyone in heaven wants us dead, you know anyone else who knows dick about sick angels?”

Sammy was bitchfacing at him, he didn’t even need to look over to know.

“Dammit Sam, just call.”

Crowley didn’t answer.

 

By the time the brothers got the unconscious angel into the bunker, a fine blue mist was leaking through his lips with every exhale. He’d woken up twice on the drive home, each time conscious only long enough to moan in pain and beg for help. They didn’t know how to help him.

“Think we should make a ring of holy oil?”

Dean looked over at his brother. Sam was looking at Castiel.

“Holy oil holds angels in, right? So if he’s leaking out, maybe a circle will keep him... I dunno… consolidated?”

Dean’s phone rang, and he grabbed for it so fast it flipped twice before clattering to the floor.

Castiel didn’t stir. Dean punched the green button.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Love you too, darling. Now if you’ll be so kind as to remove the warding on your front door, I have a house call to make.”

Dean covered the mouthpiece. “Crowley’s outside.”

“Dean, we can _not_ let him inside-“

“We have to, Sam, we are totally on our own here and Cas might be running out of time.”

“How does it help Cas is Crowley breaks in here and trashes the place? In case you missed Rowena’s little hint, I actually tried to kill him a couple days ago. I doubt he’s gotten over it.”

“I tried to kill you with a hammer, you forgave _me._ ”

“That’s different!”

“I can still hear you,” Crowley’s voice said from the phone. “The microphones on these new jobs are incredibly sensitive.”

Sam and Dean exchanged looks.

“I’m coming to let you in,” Dean said, and hung up the phone.

 

 

Crowley stared at Castiel for a very, very long time.

“Well?” Dean asked finally. “Are you gonna check him out or not?”

“He’s a metaphysical entity in a _very_ thin meat shell. I can see him just fine from here.”

“So do you know what’s wrong with him? Did Rowena do something to him?”

“No, my whore mother kept up her end of the deal. The spell she placed on him is gone. Castiel here is, in a word, fine. Little feathers, on the other hand, not so much.”

Dean looked over at Sam. Sam shrugged. Dean rolled his eyes and looked back at Crowley.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means, angels are built out of grace and ether,” Crowley said very slowly, like he was explaining a very simple concept to a very simple child. “They need to be held together by another angel until they’re fully formed, or they die.”

“So, what, Cas is falling apart?” Sam’s brow furrowed. “That doesn’t make sense. He’s thousands of years old. And there’s no one in heaven willing to hold him together.”

Crowley looked at Sam, then at Dean, then back at Sam. Dean got the impression that the demon thought they were missing something very obvious. He mixed Crowley’s statements around in his head like errant puzzle pieces, trying to fit them together in a way that made any kind of sense. It didn’t work.

“Cut the crap, Crowley. What’s wrong with him, and how do we fix it?”

“Oh, you bloody _morons._ That grace isn’t from _Cas._ ”

Dean looked back at the angel. Even unconscious, his brow was furrowed in pain. The blood drying on his lips looked garish under the steady trickle of blue light.

“Crowley…”

“Oh for hell’s sake. You two really didn’t notice Castiel here had an angelic bun in the metaphorical oven?”

Dean blinked.

“Run that past me again?”

“That’s impossible. That’s just…” Sam ran his hand through his hair. “How could he be... I mean, he’s a _he._ ”

“He’s an _angel,_ you bloody idiot.” Crowley looked between the two hunters, who were regarding him with twin looks of disbelief. “You really didn’t know. He didn’t tell you.”

“Never breathed a word,” Sam muttered.

“Well, I suppose that explains a lot. I was wondering why you’d leave your pet angel alone with a witch and a demon, knowing his _delicate_ condition.”

Dean stared at the angel, still trying to fit the puzzle pieces together.

“How long? How’d this happen?”

“Judging by what I can see, it’s been a couple months. As for how it happened…” Crowley shrugged. “I haven’t been watching him. Anybody give feathers here a good pounding lately? Not the sexy kind, the other kind. The kind it takes a lot of grace to fix.”

Dean’s face paled.

_The library. He begged me._

He saw Castiel in his mind, begging for mercy through a mouth full of blood.

He saw Cas bleeding on the floor, sliced by a dozen angel blades.

_He called me. I knew he wasn’t fine. I should have gone to help._

_I was focused on the mark._

_I was focused on the darkness._

Sam stared down at the angel, his own words ringing in his head.

_Make the spell happen. Whatever it takes._

_I need you to do this._  

“I’ll take it that’s a yes,” Crowley said at their silence. “You boys really should take better care of your toys.”

“Why didn’t he tell us?” Sam whispered.

“You needed me,” Castiel answered in a ruined voice.

“Cas!”

Dean was by the angel’s side in a second.

“Cas. Tell me Crowley’s fucking with us.”

Castiel clenched his eyes shut, grimacing. One last wisp of blue wafted from his throat, and was gone.

“Cas, were you… pregnant?”

The angel’s answer was lost in a sob.

“Oh, Cas,” Sam murmured.

“That’s my cue to go. Always a pleasure, boys, good luck with the grieving angel.”

And with that, Crowley was gone.  

 

 

It had long been a central tenet of the Winchester religion that no trauma was so great that it could not be buried in alcohol, so when Castiel asked them to leave, Sam and Dean retreated to the kitchen and worked their way through a fifth of vodka. Dean’s face had started to swell from the beating he’d taken in the warehouse, all those ages ago, and Sam dutifully wrapped up a washcloth of ice for him.

When the vodka ran out, the two of them sat at the table, not talking. They had nothing to say.

That was the scene Castiel found when he pulled himself together enough to leave his room. He didn’t hurt, precisely. His vessel and clothing had been easily restored, his injuries gone. Rowena’s curse had been magical, not physical, and so there was no residual pain from that, either.

What Castiel felt wasn’t pain, so much as a sensation of hollowness. His grace reached out for something that wasn’t there. It had spent so long curled around the egg that without the little angel he felt centerless.

His hand twitched to his belly, but it was a pointless gesture. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

He looked up at the hunters, green and hazel eyes regarding him with worry.

 _These are the men I wanted you to meet,_ he told the little angel.

And then, before he could stop it, he started to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I tag this with 'major character death?' I can't get a definitive definition of 'major character.'


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